Victory at Any Cost
by Ridire
Summary: When one man's war doesn't end the way he needs it to, he does the unthinkable, and rips time, space, and magic, apart, to send himself back to a point where he can win, and never have to fight again. Forgoing forcing himself through the rigors of a one-man war again, he reaches out to the only person he can trust: Arcturus Black. (Drama for politicking.)


The war ended five years after it began. June Sixth, 2001. It ended slightly strangely. The downward thrust of a dagger, the jerking palpitations of a dying heart, a mad cackle, a flash of light, and the rending of space, time, and magic itself.

* * *

Harry Potter had spent two years fighting a losing war, since that evening in the Ministry in June. Something seemed to snap him from it, however, when his lover died. He went from fighting a reactive, defensive war, like the last war against Voldemort, to actively hunting Death Eaters. Harry cut them down in front of their families. He cut them down in front of the Minister of Magic. He cut them down in their homes, alone; as long as there was a Death Eater to be killed; Harry Potter was there, hunting them through the night. Voldemort reacted strongly; he started holding open attacks upon Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley. Their war down slid from a war, to a personal vendetta beyond anything Britain had seen, save the Hundred Years' War.

They went from fighting each for their respective causes, to killing, hunting, and torching homes in the night simply for the joy of it.

* * *

When the end came, in the ashes of Diagon Alley, as London burned around them from Fiendfyre, Harry Potter thrust a dagger through the ribcage and into the heart of a virgin sacrifice. She happened to be seven.

* * *

The study of the Familia Dominus of the House of Black was… interesting, really. Wall to wall, ceiling to floor, bookshelves lined the walls. On several tables placed near the walls were quite a few interesting artifacts from Atlantis, Greece, and Rome. Interspersed among these, in glass cases, were a few wands, from some of the previous Familia Dominae, the signet rings of vanquished families, and a single personal item in open display: a locket, bearing the crest of the Macmillan family. It was Arcturus Black's only reminder of his dead and buried wife. Biting back a bitter sigh at the thought, the man turned back to the paper dealing with Abraxas Malfoy's attempts to ensnare young Narcissa, his third cousin as well as grand-niece, in marriage to the man's offensive son. _The House of Malfoy shall pay the sum of..._ More inane nonsense, really. Arcturus had better things to be doing than trying to figure out which dark wizard scum the younger Malfoy was hanging around with now. Arcturus had just dipped his quill in ink, in order to respond in the negative once again, when a flash of brilliant blue-green light shot through the room, killing his eyesight momentarily. Scowling, he stood and brought his wand up from where it had been placed, on his desk, and held it loosely forward, prepared to strike with a Killing Curse.

When his eyesight returned, Arcturus saw a young man, probably about twenty or twenty one. Cocking an eyebrow, the green-eyed, black haired youth looked up from where he was kneeling, holding a bloody dagger. When he spoke, his accent was more different than the accents used by the youth Arcturus was familiar with, and he sounded slightly out of breath. "Quick, man, what year is it? Where am I?"

"You, dear sir, happen to be in Number 12 Grimmauld Place, Traditional Home of the House of Black. What, exactly is your purpose in my home?" Grinning at that, the young man took a slow circle of the room, examining everything without moving. Finally, he turned back to Arcturus after a long few moments.

"You must be Arcturus, then…." The youth was obviously remembering something; something dear to the heart, if the fleetingly pained expression crossing his face was any indicator. Sympathizing, because Arcturus could remember well the loss of his Melania, he waited. "I remember you from the tapestry. A reasonable, if harsh man, Sirius described you…. I'm Harold James Black, Familia Dominus. I seek the aid and succor of the House of Black."

His own eyebrow raised, Arcturus waited a moment for an explanation. When none was forthcoming, he sighed, replaced his wand upon the desk, and sat, motioning for Harold to do the same. The young man sketched a bow in thanks, took the seat to the across and to the left of Arcturus, and delicately placed the still wet dagger upon an empty portion of his desk. "If I may be so bold, Harold, I'd like an explanation as to how you got here, and why." The young man sat back, then, eased from his tenter hooks, and sighed. That simple motion, of sitting back and sighing, exhibited a change in the man, as the weight of the world seemed to settle on his shoulders. When he spoke, his voice was almost that of one hypnotized.

"In 1970, Lord Voldemort, Tom Marvolo Riddle, will launch the First Wizarding War. His Death Eaters will create a reign of terror that lasts until October 31st, 1981. The war won't be ended by skill, or intelligence, or a lucky battle in the dark of night, because it's a losing fight for the Ministry and Albus Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix. It's ended by a boy, a possible child of prophesy, when Tom Riddle attacks the house he and his parents are hiding in. Tom's Killing Curse rebounds, due to the mother's sacrifice; she literally died trying to save her son. I'm sure you know that's old magic?" At Arcturus' nod, the man continues.

"The boy loses his parents, all contact to the Wizarding World, and grows up beaten, starved, and treated like a house elf. Fast forward to 1991; the boy is sent to Hogwarts, over the objections of his guardians, and quite basically, his school career is miserable up until 1995; that June, Tom Riddle captures the boy, and, using a foul blood magic ritual, resurrects his body, and begins the Second Wizarding War. Nothing's done that entire year, until Tom uses the boy's godfather as bait to lure the boy to the Hall of Prohpesy in the Ministry of Magic. There, a fight ensues; the boy's godfather dies. He kills for the first conscious time. Now the Second War has set Britain aflame, and slowly, losing ground, numbers, and loved ones, the boy watches the Wizarding World he fell in love with at eleven die.

The boy, not knowing what to do, starts fighting like his enemies, Tom and his Death Eaters. He kills. He murders the families of Death Eaters as they sleep. He scorches homes to the ground with Fiendfyre. He doesn't stop until all that's left of the war is himself, and Tom. So the boy retreats from battle. He takes a year, and in a pyramid of a Nubian king, in modern day Sudan…. He finds a tablet, in ancient Birgid. So he painstakingly translates it. And then he performs the ritual. And now that boy's here before you, trying to stop both wars before they ever get started, and save the loss of all the ones he'll ever love."

Now both of Arcturus' eyebrows were arched, and, with a slow deliberateness, he removed a bottle of Veritaserum from the concealed drawer in his desk. "Would you be willing to take this, and verify the accuracy of such a story?" At Harold's resolute nod, Arcturus administers the potion, before settling back. "What is your name?"

"Harold James Black, formerly Potter."A lip shot up, quirked in a half-smile. Arcturus knew the Potters, and this man bore a small resemblance to Charlus. More of one to... Dorea. Dear gods on High! The man was telling the truth. Dorea had only the one son, James.

"How did you come to be a Black?"

"When your grandson Sirius, my godfather died, I inherited everything. Money, lands, titles. Since my grandmother was a Black, the family magic allowed me to assume the position of Familia Dominus. I took Sirius' surname, because I knew him as a father more than my own, and thought it fitting."

Well. At least the man had loved his grandson, and his grandson the man. Thinking for a moment, another question struck Arcturus. "Did the House of Black support this Tom Riddle?"

"For the most part, yes, I'm afraid. Narcissa, Bellatrix, Cassiopeia, Walburga, and Orion all did. Regulus, your grandson, that is, did, for a time, before he found out Tom Riddle was a half-blood and a madman. And then he defected, and gave his life trying to stop Tom."

"I… I see. Thank you, Harold. Or is it Harry?"

"Used to be Harry. Everyone that called me that's either dead _then_, not old enough to know me, or not born."

"Very well. Thank you, Hal." Shoving back the conflicting emotions; namely anger, and fear at what could cause an arguably 'good' man to burn houses around families, Arcturus administered the antidote to the Veritaserum, and summoned Kreacher.

"Lord Black summons Kreacher?" Urgh. He'd forgotten how scraping the damned thing was, because of Walburga. Sighing, Arcturus leaned back in his chair and stroked the thin mustache he'd been growing. Really, to annoy Walburga, he admitted to himself.

"Yes, Kreacher. Attend Harold here. As well, anything you hear in this room, discussed between the two of us, is privileged information. If I find you've shared it with _anyone_, save whom I inform you is acceptable, you will be punished. Accordingly." Bowing and scraping for Arcturus, Kreacher turned, and when Hal asked for a cup of tea and a sandwich, Arcturus suspected he wasn't particularly interested in food, especially when he spoke up, ignoring Kreacher.

"Familia Dominus, will accept my request for aid and succor?" Arcturus knew he would, even if the boy was only loosely related through Dorea. He had willingly taken the surname Black, fit the family coloration, and some of Dorea's father, another Cygnus, showed in his facial features. Arguably, Arcturus could simply produce him as a previously hidden away bastard with a Muggle, and get away with it.

"I will," Arcturus nodded. "On one condition, son. I suspect that you're the Lord Black in your time?" Harry nodded back, scowling at the memories. "Good. You'll become Regent of the House of Black, in the event Cygnus and I die, since I don't trust Phineas, Orion, or Pollux with it. Alphard won't want it. You'll hold the reigns until Sirius reaches his majority. And hopefully, you can keep Walburga from ruining my grandsons." Harry nodded his acceptance, and then set to drinking his tea and eating the roast beef sandwich Kreacher brought him.

"I understand you want to pursue your war, son, but there's things I need for you to do before I give you free reign to pursue it. Bellatrix is betrothed to Rodolphus Lestrange. I've got reports on my desk of some pure-bloods being attacked. Normally, this wouldn't worry me. Bella's an accomplished duelist. I suspect, however, that you've got several years of combat experience, and if you hadn't gotten good, you'd have died. So; I need you to protect Bella, in the event she's attacked. I don't care if you inform her, or come out of the shadows if she's attacked. Just…. Protect her, Harold James Black. This I charge you, as Lord Arcturus Black, Familia Dominus of House Black." And Harry, he, _felt_ the magic emanating from Arcturus, forcing him to accept the charge, unwanted as it was. Sighing again, Arcturus bent forward, and began scribbling on a piece of parchment with a spare quill.

"I'll introduce you to the family at large at the summer solstice celebration. For now, here's a bank draft for five hundred Galleons a week. If you need more, do owl me. As well, report every two weeks or more often if something happens. Other than that, you've got your charge, young Harold Black. Perform your duty to the family, and may the gods watch over you."

Nodding at Arcturus, Harry stood, accepted the bank draft, and then Apparated out of Grimmauld Place, leaving Arcturus to his paperwork. Confident that Harry would do what was necessary to protect his grand-niece and third cousin, he went back to perusing the Daily Prophet's business section, and summoned Kreacher again. Looking at the house elf over the top of his paper, Arcturus summoned a pair of bifocals and placed them on the bridge of his nose.

"Kreacher. Find the French wands in _Le Mort d'Louis_ in Diagon Alley and bring them to me. There should be five; a decent sized strike team. I have need of mercenaries."

"As my Lord Black commands," Kreacher declared rapturously, happy, as always, to be of service to Arcturus. The house elf disappeared with the usual pop, and Arcturus settled in to wait, perusing _The Daily Profit_, the aptly named business paper inserted within the _Prophet._

When Kreacher re-appeared with the five French wizards, Arcturus had moved on to a book about the theoretical requirements of time travel. Dismissing Kreacher to bring some tea and biscuits, Arcturus conjured five chairs and motioned for the hired wands to sit. Their leader, a Jacques Delacour, had the aristocratic good looks found usually in the French Court. Except Arcturus knew why he was really in Britain with his oath-brothers.

"My dear Jacques. I've ten thousand Galleons needing spent, and a woman needing faux-kidnapped. Are you up to it?"

"Of course, _mon seigneur. _Say who and it shall be as you command."

"Bellatrix Black, my grand-niece. I've assigned a minor family member to protect her. I wish to test his mettle. You'll all most likely die. That said, if you've any families needing taken care of, I'm more than willing to do so for you, gentlemen." The five French hired wands shared a look, and then all shook their heads.

"No, _mon seigneur._ We are all single men with no children."

"Fantastic! So you accept?"

"_Oui, mon seigneur."_ Nodding, the French wizards Apparated out, save for Jacques Delacour. He and Arcturus shared one last look, before Jacques, too, was gone.

* * *

Casting a glamour charm, Harry changed his hair to be a light brown, with a more defined chin and pronounced cheekbones. Eyes were next, and they became a charming hazel. Finished, Harry stepped out from the small circle he had Apparated to, and into Diagon Alley. Pushing through the crowd quietly, with his head down, he ignored the sights, sounds, and smells, pushing back the rising sense of nostalgia in favor of keeping a tight grip on his wand. Old habits died hard, and when those habits were ingrained by combat and survival, they died even harder. The walk to Gringotts was a fairly long one, from where he had Apparated into Diagon Alley. That was good, to Harry. That gave him time to think, time which he desperately needed.

As a result of his experiences in the war, he was able to think, and follow, logic much better. Either Arcturus didn't believe him, which didn't matter, he was still letting Harry access Black family funds, or he did, and didn't want to see the collapse of the Wizarding world. Either way, Harry had access to a Black vault, a mission, and at least for now, a purpose not at an odd with his own. Which, really, he had to admit, was a good thing. If he dwelt on _her_ loss too long, he'd go even madder, which wouldn't allow him to do what he needed to hunt down Tom Riddle and his Knights of Walspurgis, soon to be Death Eaters.

Harry recognized a few people he passed as the parents or grandparents of people he would kn- _would have known,_ in his own time. Lucius Malfoy, proudly declaring to his mother he wanted the latest broom. Rodolphus Lestrange, arrogantly informing Lucius he already had it. Scowling at the thought of Rodolphus touching Bellatrix, _probably an effect of the family magic,_ Harry assumed, and he silently shot a tracking spell onto Rodolphus' shoe, grinning. Now he'd be able to find the bastard, once he finished his business at Gringott's and the Leaky Cauldron.

The large white building was different from the last time Hal remembered it. Then, it had been scourged by _Fiendfyre_, everything but the white stones charred and twisted and melted. Now…. Now it soared into the sky, the tallest building in Diagon Alley, a triumphant king reigning. Almost smiling at the thought that is was exactly the same as the first time he saw it, Harry entered, found the proper line, and, when confronted with a scowling goblin, plastered a scowl across his face as well.

"I've a bank draft for some money, goblin scum." The thing about goblins, Harry knew, and had learned, was they only respected strength. Arrogance was, when confident in one's strength, a facet of that. As a result, forcing them to acknowledge the superiority of wizards was best. The goblin's scowl changed to a sneer, and he responded.

"Very well, _sir,_ if you'll hand it here." Harry deigned to comply, feigning disinterest, even as the goblin began to examine the parchment, as well as signature and signet seal. Finally, he allowed a grudging nod, before questioning the young wizard. "Do you want all of it now, or merely an advance, and the rest placed in a vault?"

"I'd prefer an advance. I think fifty Galleons will do it, and the rest placed in an empty vault. Here's my signature, and a drop of blood, so you can key the vault to me." Harry took a quill and scrawled his name across a scrap piece of parchment, before pricking his thumb with the quill and pressing it against the parchment. Handing it back to the goblin, they each gave the other a grudging nod, before Hal exited the line, and Gringott's altogether.

Pushing his way through the crowd once again, Harry headed for the Leaky Cauldron, a bed -time travel, when using a blood sacrifice and the magic of both participants was tiring- and a meal. Tomorrow, he was thinking, he'd start the hunt for Death Eaters, or the Knights of Walspurgis, or whatever they were calling themselves, and protecting Bellatrix.

Except there was a tingling in the back of his mind, a tingling he was barely familiar with, having only encountered it once, and that was earlier today. _The family magic. What is it, though? Is Bella in trouble already?_ Cursing, Harry spun, searching for Bella. He had no clue of her location, and a faint sense of panic was tingeing his thoughts. Swearing, more loudly this time, Harry drew his wand, turned on his heel, and Apparated, thinking firmly on Bellatrix Black's location.


End file.
